


Stag Night

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John's perspective on a few things. Takes place in the drunk tank after our boys get arrested but before Lestrade comes to fetch them. Mentions of drinking, suicide and one or two uses of strong language.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little quick entry. This was written quickly, please forgive any mistakes. I wasn't planning on writing anything else until next week, but I wanted to put this out there before I lost the scene.

           “My heaaaaaaaad…” Sherlock groaned, clutching his offending dome and trying to get comfortable on the concrete slab that served as both bench and bed in the grim holding tank. When they were ushered in by the duty officer, Sherlock had wasted no time in appropriating it and he sprawled there now, long legs hanging off the end. John had scoffed and unceremoniously shoved Sherlock’s legs aside so that he could sit down somewhere other than the floor.

          “Shuddup, drama queen. My head hurts, too.”

          “Drama queen?!” Despite the current state of his physical transport and his intellect, Sherlock raised his head enough to glare down his nose at John. “I’m no’ a drama queen,” he said, then stopped and frowned, as if aware that something was amiss, but not sure where he had gone wrong. Speaking more clearly, “I’m a _man_ , John.”

          “Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” John snorted. “Doesn’t matter…you’re still the queeniest man I know.” He reviewed the words in his head and repressed a snicker.

          “Am _not._ ”

          “Fine, you’re a drama king then. Remind me to get you a crown.”

          John didn’t realize Sherlock was laughing at first. He became aware that his friend’s leg was shaking and looked back in drunken alarm; was Sherlock having a seizure? No. Nope. Just laughing silently. John felt his mouth twitch and suddenly the whole night struck him as ridiculous and he let a laugh slip out. “Stop, we can’t giggle in here, we sound like we’re having a slumber party.”

          Sherlock hooted, and then moaned, and clenched his head delicately between his hands, curls foaming over his fingers. “Oh, my head really does hurt. I don’t understand. I calculated the amounts and times perfectly.”

          A wave of guilt washed over John; it was his fault the drinks had hit them so hard. The night had been a bit too…tame, and so he started spiking their lager. Who would have guessed they’d end up back at 221B, and then embroiled in a case which ended with Sherlock heaving the contents of his stomach all over the rug? The landlord had understandably been a bit piqued by the goings on and had the two of them hauled off. So now here they were, waiting for Lestrade to come rescue them. John, being a former Army man, and a bit of a lad, had experience with drinking too much, so while he wasn’t exactly comfortable, he was handling himself alright.

          Sherlock on the other hand…

          John would wager his medals that Sherlock Holmes had never been drunk before.

          “I can’t get comfortable,” Sherlock grumbled, wiggling about, knocking John in the back with his bony knees.

          “Stop. Here, shift over.” John stood up. “You can put your head on my leg.”

          He wasn’t prepared for his flat-mate to stare at him owlishly. If it had been anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, he thought he might be a bit teary eyed.

          They settled back down a bit awkwardly, with Sherlock’s head gingerly resting on John’s thigh. John tried to find some place to put his left arm without touching the other man, but finally gave it up and crossed his arms over his chest. Sherlock was quiet for a bit. John leaned his head back against the brick wall and tried to relax. His arms started to slide down his torso and he firmed up his muscles.

          “You can relax John, I don’t have a disease.” Sherlock sounded defensive, and John flushed. He forgot sometimes that his friend was still human under that prickly, asshole exterior he wore so well. Consciously telling himself to relax, there wasn’t anyone there to see anyway, John dropped his arms and casually let his forearm rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.

          It was funny, at one time, in the early days, John believed—or mostly believed—Sherlock and all his rot about the body being transport and blah blah blah. Sherlock had had the body of a man who cared little for food or fleshly pleasures; his tendency to swan about the flat (or indeed Buckingham Palace) in little more than a sheet or his rent boy pajama bottoms had made John rather familiar with the lean lines of his friend's body. But since his return from exile, John had noticed that Sherlock had developed better muscle tone, _sliiiiiiightly_ better eating habits, and had even…well, sort of gotten soft. Emotionally.  

          He could still be a right prick, most of the time; he was, after all, still Sherlock Holmes. But while he wounded with his words as skillfully as ever, John thought he had detected a certain restraint in his friend. He wasn’t as quick to wound on purpose. No, now it was more a matter of him not perceiving how his words would be taken. _That_ at least hadn’t changed.

          John still hadn’t gotten many details on what exactly had happened during the last two years, but he rather fancied that Sherlock had realized that he needed people. That he missed them and their presence in his life was important.

          Not that he, John, wasn’t still justifiably angry at him for deceiving him, letting him believe he was dead, letting him almost—

          “Ow, John.”

          At Sherlock’s protest, John looked down, and realized in some surprise that he was clutching Sherlock’s bicep rather forcefully. He eased his grip, gave the arm a little pat. Thinking about how close he had come to killing himself during the early days after Sherlock’s apparent suicide was still hard for him. It wasn’t just that his best friend was dead; it was the hopeless empty feeling, knowing that he was alone again, so terribly alone. It was thinking that Sherlock had died rather than fight—with John at his side of course—the idea that Sherlock hadn’t trusted him enough to help him through the scandal.

          Meeting Mary had helped him through that god-awful bleak fog he had lived in for months, he couldn’t help but love her for relieving his pain; he owed her so much for saving him. But he hadn’t really felt like himself again until Sherlock walked arrogantly back into his life.

          Thinking about that night still got him steamed; (slightly) improved emotional maturity notwithstanding, Sherlock still didn’t get that his “death” wasn’t a joke. Not to John. It had taken a lot for him to overcome his initial rage and sense of hurt. But ultimately he had, because he loved the madman.

          “Mm, John, that feels nice,” Sherlock practically purred. John looked down, startled, and realized he had been running his hand through Sherlock’s soft, springy curls, kneading his scalp and massaging his neck. Embarrassed, he stopped, drawing a protest from the other man. Sherlock rolled slightly toward him, turning his head on John’s leg until their eyes met. “Don’t stop.”

          John felt his face heat. He was a doctor, he touched other people all the time; relieving pain was his career. Comforting his friend should be nothing for him. But for some reason he felt awkward; exposed and cornered. He wanted to protest, move away, but Sherlock had dropped his head back on John’s leg, as if it belonged there, and John hesitantly resumed petting his hair. He hoped like hell no one came in and caught them like this.

 

******

 

          Two hours later, when Lestrade showed up, smirking, John was sitting on the floor and Sherlock was on the bench, the euphoria of drinking had evaporated and a foul mood had taken its place. As he stalked down the hallway, muttering about missed opportunities, John was relieved. Things were back to normal. Weird shit happened when you drank, but things always went back to normal. Thank goodness. Yeah.


End file.
